Charlie’s Apprentice (21 page)

‘You can’t properly practise as priests,’ contradicted Samuels, at once.

‘It’s his dream that one day things will change: that he
will
be able to.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Snow thought before answering. ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt that communism will crumble here, as it’s crumbled everywhere else. But I’m not sure how long it will take …’ He paused, glancing through the open doors towards where the old man lay. ‘… I certainly don’t think it’s going to be in his lifetime. So he’s going to die disappointed.’

‘Father Robertson came to see me, two or three days ago. Told me that your escort had visited again.’

‘He wants copies of some photographs I took when we were travelling.’ Snow had wondered how long it would take the subject to be raised.

Samuels came forward in his chair, and when he spoke the words were spaced even more than usual in the odd way he talked. ‘What photographs? You haven’t done anything insensitive, have you?’

‘He was an official escort!’ reminded Snow, pleased as the explanation came to him. ‘I wouldn’t have been
allowed
to photograph anything I wasn’t supposed to, even by accident, would I?’

Samuels continued to look at him doubtfully. ‘Offence is very easily given here. Even by doing something that would not cause a problem anywhere else in the world.’

‘I have undergone a great many lectures on the political realities of living here,’ reminded Snow.

‘With Father Robertson incapacitated – we don’t know for how long – I would like you to let me know if this man keeps turning up here,’ said the diplomat. ‘I don’t want us – at the embassy, I mean – caught out by not being prepared.’

‘I’ll keep you in touch,’ promised Snow. There was an irony here: Father Robertson’s illness would provide a valid excuse to visit the embassy whenever he liked in the immediate future, but there was no contact any more with whom he could liaise. Quickly, seeing the opportunity, he said: ‘When I was at the trade reception Foster told me he was leaving. Is there a replacement yet?’

Samuels frowned and Snow feared he had been too direct. The diplomat said: ‘Not yet. There will be. Always essential to maintain the personnel quota we’re allowed.’

‘Quite soon then?’ said Snow, risking the persistence. If the new liaison man arrived in a week or two the opportunity might still be there for them to have safe embassy encounters to plan the new system for the future.

Instead of replying Samuels’ face creased at an overlooked question of his own. ‘Where
are
the photographs this man wants?’

‘I sent them to England, to my family, for developing. I’ve asked for the prints to be sent back.’ Snow decided the moment was lost and that it would be wrong to try to get back to it.

‘So he’ll be returning?’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’m not happy with this.’

‘Really!’ said Snow, stressing the weariness at a repeated conversation. ‘We talked this through very fully at the reception. There isn’t
anything
to worry about.’

‘I think I should advise London, of this second visit.’

‘Good!’ seized Snow at once. ‘It’ll give you an opportunity to include my full explanation this time.’

‘I’ll put your views,’ promised Samuels.

The exchange did not amount to a dispute but an atmosphere developed between them. With his mind occupied by his unexpected access to the embassy, Snow decided to alert the Curia as quickly as possible of Father Robertson’s condition.

But alone, in his own quarters, Snow did not start to write at once, instead gazing uncertainly at the blank paper in the ancient, uneven-keyed typewriter. This was his first chance to communicate direct, without having to go through the censorious Father Robertson, with those in Rome who ordered and dictated their lives and whose instructions had to be unquestioningly obeyed. Written in a certain way – and not an unfair or untrue way – Snow knew he could manipulate Father -Robertson’s enforced retirement. He could remind the Curia of the old man’s past suffering and honestly recount the constant apprehension and set out the apparent seriousness of the sudden illness.

There was the sound of movement along the corridor and Snow looked up in time to see Samuels coming out of Father Robertson’s room. The diplomat turned, sensing Snow’s attention, and shook his head to indicate there was no change.

He couldn’t do it, Snow determined. Father Robertson was being medically cared for, as safe as he could possibly be at this time and in this place. That was all he was entitled to tell Rome. To do anything more – to try to use the illness for his own selfish, personal benefit – would be monstrously wrong, betraying any and every principle with which he had been indoctrinated as a priest: principles which, if he were brutally honest, he might already have put into doubt by his secondary activities which, at times like this, almost seemed more important than his first and proper calling. It had been agonizing trying to salve his conscience over the confessional: he couldn’t, at the moment, sacrifice any more of his unsteady integrity.

Snow began to write at last, keeping the account absolutely factual and strictly limited to the collapse. He made a carbon copy, for Father Robertson to know everything Rome had been told. And having completed the letter Snow left the envelope open for the doctor’s return, hoping to add a suggested diagnosis, reluctant for Rome to regard the illness as a mystery.

It was not, however, properly resolved when the doctor
did
return.

It was mid-afternoon before Pickering came back, initially shouldering past them with the briefest nod of greeting, interested only in the now peacefully sleeping priest. While the other two men watched, Pickering went progressively through the earlier temperature, blood pressure, somnolent eye reaction and nerve sensitivity tests before removing the saline drip from Father Robertson’s arm. He gently dressed the induced puncture wound – which showed no tendency to bleed – and as he dismantled the drip frame finally said: ‘He’s a lot better. Certainly won’t need this. Everything seems to be stabilizing nicely.’ At last he turned to them, smiling proudly.

‘What is it?’ demanded Samuels, again.

The smile faded into the familiar irritable scowl. ‘I don’t know
what
it is. But I know what it’s
not
. Definitely not infectious.’

Snow said: ‘I want to give an indication to my Order in Rome.’

‘I don’t know,’ repeated Pickering. ‘It could be a virus: maybe we’ll never scientifically know.’

‘What about the seriousness?’ persisted Samuels.

‘He’s an old man and he’s quite frail,’ declared the doctor, unnecessarily. ‘At his age and in his condition, a virus has got to be regarded seriously. But the improvement is quite remarkable in the last few hours: almost dramatically so. Which is encouraging. His temperature is practically normal, and for his age I regard his blood pressure as practically normal, too.’

‘Is there any risk … I mean, could he die?’ stumbled Snow.

‘Good God, no!’ erupted the man, who appeared permanently on the point of exasperation. ‘He’ll need care, certainly. But I don’t think he’s in any danger.’

‘What’s the treatment?’ asked Samuels.

‘Simple antibiotics, as far as I can see. He’s no longer unconscious: this is just a sleep of exhaustion, nothing more.’

‘So we’ll move him to the infirmary,’ declared the diplomat.

‘Why?’ demanded Pickering, querulously.

‘Why not?’ said Samuels, equally forcefully. ‘He’s not infectious. But he needs care. It’s obvious he should be moved where he is closer to you.’

‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here,’ refused Pickering. ‘In fact, it’s far better than trying to move him, which we’d have to do by car, because to wait for days for the Chinese to provide ambulance facilities would be ridiculous …’ He nodded towards Snow. ‘He’s more than capable of doing what’s necessary, which is just seeing the medication is administered at the proper time. And I can make all the daily visits that are necessary …’ Again Snow was indicated with a nod. ‘I can give him my home as well as official number, for when the telephone gets fixed, so he can call me at any time if there’s any relapse. Which I don’t believe there will be.’

‘I think he should be moved,’ said Samuels, doggedly.

‘It’s not your decision to make!’ rejected Pickering. ‘I am responsible here for the medical care of British nationals.’

‘And I am responsible for that and every other care,’ yelled Samuels, in a surprisingly undiplomatic outburst. Striving at once for control Samuels said: ‘I can’t see any reason why Father Robertson can’t be taken somewhere better medically equipped than this place.’

Snow thought the diplomat sounded like someone offering a defence to a later accusation, which perhaps he considered he was. Concerned himself with Father Robertson’s well-being, Snow said to the doctor: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to take him into a hospital?’

‘If I thought it would be I’d do it!’ said Pickering. ‘At the moment this man is medically better here, where …’

The sentence was never finished. Behind the doctor Father Robertson gave a snuffling sigh, shifted uncomfortably and finally opened his eyes, staring without focus for several moments at the cracked and dirt-rimmed ceiling directly above his bed. The blank face and the blank eyes cleared at last. He turned his head sideways and saw them. ‘What?’ he said, in a vague, one-word demand.

It was Pickering who conducted everything, without ever offering Father Robertson an answer to his question. With the elderly priest able at last minimally to communicate sensibly, Pickering took the man through a series of verbal examinations, greatly extending the neurological tests. He expanded the medical in step with Father Robertson’s recovery. Within fifteen minutes the mission head was taking by mouth the antibiotics the doctor produced from his bag. Over his shoulder, generally to both of them, Pickering said: ‘An even greater recovery!’ This time the pride was in the voice, not in a smile.

Samuels and Snow approached the bed together. Father Robertson was fully conscious. Again, repeatedly, he begged their forgiveness for whatever trouble he had caused, at one stage reaching out imploringly, which unintentionally revealed to them both the sticklike fragility of his arms.

‘You feel better?’ pressed Samuels.

‘Tired. That’s all. Just tired. I am so sorry.’

‘I was worried,’ came in Snow.

‘Forgive me. So stupid.’

‘He’ll need rest, for several days,’ bustled Pickering. ‘I will prescribe a mild sedative, to go with the antibiotics. And come every day: as often as I consider necessary …’ The look to Samuels was dismissive. ‘Everything will be done that needs to be done.’

Ignoring the doctor, Samuels said to the sick man: ‘I feel you should come to the embassy: that would be best, wouldn’t it?’

‘I really think …’began the indignant Pickering, behind them, but Father Robertson cut in over the doctor. ‘I really feel much better. It’s here I should be. I will be all right here: quite all right.’

‘Thank God that’s settled!’ declared Pickering. Careless of the small audience, the doctor said to Samuels: ‘I resent your interference.’

Snow didn’t think further examination was necessary, but was instead a gesture physically to relegate Samuels, and guessed from the colour of the diplomat’s face that Samuels thought the same.

Snow listened intently to the doctor’s instructions about the dosages and medication and accepted the offered telephone numbers, making a mental note to check whether the already reported fault had been corrected.

Throughout there was no conversation between the doctor and the diplomat. Both men remained unspeaking when they left the mission.

The sedative had taken effect and Father Robertson slept for another three hours before stirring again. He was heavy-eyed.

‘I’m getting old,’ he said, sadly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Snow.

‘Did I cause much trouble?’

‘Nothing,’ dismissed Snow.

Father Robertson’s eyes began to close. ‘Old,’ he said, indistinctly.

‘So this is a farewell feast!’ Marcia had been for more than a week at an exhibition in Birmingham, so they’d only talked by telephone of his going to Beijing.

‘Hardly farewell,’ said Gower, smiling across the restaurant table. ‘I’ve yet to get a visa.’

‘And I thought you were just some lowly clerk: would be for years!’

‘I was surprised, too,’ admitted Gower. He accepted that formalities had to be completed – visas particularly – but he was impatient at the delay. He had expected to leave practically at once after the promised final briefing: every day that passed surely increased the danger if their source had been exposed.

‘How long will you be away?’

‘It’s an on-the-spot survey of embassy facilities,’ said Gower. ‘I shan’t really know until I get there.’

‘It’s odd they have to send someone from London.’

‘They seem to think it’s necessary.’

The girl offered her glass, for more wine. With innocent prescience, she said: ‘This could be a big chance for you, though, couldn’t it?’

‘If I get everything right.’ I hope, thought Gower.

Marcia looked away, nodding agreement for the waiter to clear her plate. When the man left, she said: ‘It’s worked well, these last few weeks, hasn’t it? You and me, I mean.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Gower. The Beijing assignment
was
obviously important. So for him to have been given it must indicate he was highly regarded: maybe even one of a selected few. He could make all sorts of plans and commitments if he were that well established.

‘The lease to my place is due for renewal right away. I’ve had a letter asking what I want to do.’

‘I remembered the dates.’ He’d been expecting her to raise it.

‘There doesn’t seem much point in my going on with it. Unless you want me to, that is.’

Gower reached across for her hand, making her look at him. ‘I don’t want you to go on with it,’ he said, decisively. ‘I want you to give notice and move all your stuff in with me and I want us to start thinking of getting married.’

Marcia’s face opened into more than a smile, practically laughing in her excitement. ‘I accept!’